Accepting Eternity
by Azlira
Summary: Jack returns to Earth, finally coming to terms with Ianto's death. Possibly not as depressing as it sounds. Two-shot!
1. Chapter 1

**This is part one of a two-shot I've planned out - pretty much, a worst-case scenario of Jack's reaction to Ianto's death, (which isn't to say I'll never write an AU or something; I've never really accepted the events of CoE myself...). A companion piece to my friend's and my new series of one-shots, "Captain Jack's Diary". **

**p.s. ...don't own Torchwood. If I did, Ianto would be not only alive, but probably immortal. *sighs*  
**

**Hope you enjoy! :)**

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The children of a dozen planets grew up with the stories.

They say, on dark nights, you can find him in the slums, on the worst streets, in the corners of the filthy drinkhouses. They say that he has sat there every night, for thousands of years, as worlds have built up around him – always a different hovel, as they change with the revolving decades. But he is always there, always drowned in unspeakable sorrow. He is never asked for payment, but he always leaves something, thrown on the table as he stumbles out just before the sun comes up, and vanishes into the early morning shadows. He never speaks, but rots his throat with drink; never smiles, but his eyes are hard and dry. They say he is a ghost, who has lost something, or someone, and can never rest until he finds it again.

They're not far off the mark.

The night was as dark as my broken promises.

I'd forgotten these Earth nights, when the single moon shudders in the sky, and a harsh wind snaps the gaudy awnings of the shops. I have been so far away, for so long – so many lifetimes. I have died so many times, by my own hand, and by others', and each time he is there, just out of reach, peaceful the way I can never be.

I have seen civilizations rise and crumble into dust, brushed the dirt of a dozen planets, drunk myself into unreachable oblivion so many times that I have forgotten who I am. No one knows me – I have not touched another creature in so long, I have forgotten how flesh feels; forgotten the urges that used to drive me.

What would the people of my past think if they could see me now? I am not Jack Harkness. I am no one.

I told her I would not come back – I ran away, for one the weaker one, I ran so _far_ away, and tried not to look back. It took me too long to realize that I had never looked forwards, not really.

The night air is so strange and cold on my face – it flaps my tattered coat out behind me. My boots whisper on the pavement, and the torrential rain has driven away all the humans, forced them into their bright, safe homes.

I have no home. The rain soaks me to the skin.

Where am I going? It does not seem to matter very much. I am here to prove to myself that I all that I was is gone; that I lied – I said I would not return, and here I am. Jack Harkness would not break a promise. Each step I take is vindictive – I will not let myself close my eyes against the tearing wind, or button my coat against the rain. The voices that echo around the inside of my head, proving with each moment that I am no longer sane, as if I needed voices to tell me that, whisper bitterly in my mind. _What right have you to be warm, to be comfortable? What right have you to be happy?_ Head down, I stride through the gale.

I used to believe that I could not die, but now I realize that I've never truly lived. I am cursed, and I deserve it, for not even trying, for not saving him when I had the chance. Jack Harkness let him die.

Gwen is here, somewhere in this city – so strange to think of her, alive and well, amidst her family, beyond one of these glowing windows. I will not go and see her. Let her imagine Jack Harkness as he was, not confront her with the loathsome reality.

I am not surprised to find myself here, though I had not realized where my feet were leading me. The sound of screeching meal as I drag up the corrugated door echoes harshly along the deserted street. The sounds of the storm abate as I lock myself inside, and follow my dulled instincts to the switch I know is on the far wall. Strange, after so many years, that there are some things you remember so well.

The pain is worse than I expected, as the blinding white lights flicker on overhead, illuminating in stark detail the bare concrete floor; the plain, unlabeled boxes stacked against the walls. A sob rises to my throat as I sink to the floor, and I cannot move from there for many minutes, weakened by grief and drink. At last I stand, and slowly pry the duct tape off the top of the nearest box. It is not even dusty – how long has it been? I wonder, dully, if Gwen has had her child yet.

The box is filled with clothes – starched shirts, folded perfectly. I lift one to my face and breathe in his scent reverently, holding it away again so that my tears won't stain it. He would never have liked that. At last, I lay the shirt down, folding it as best I can with shaking hands, and move on to the next box.

The light flicker and hum as I kneel there – this one is photographs. There are none of us – I remember refusing, laughing, as Tosh lifted her camera; making some joke. I thought I was so attractive, so invincible. I hate Jack Harkness.

There are other pictures, though – he sister, and his father, who looks stern – I remember with a pang how I thought he lied about his father; how maybe I never truly knew him at all – and then, there is Lisa, him and Lisa, the girl I murdered when she lost her humanity. How did he forgive me for that? Could he have felt then as I do now? They are so happy, laughing together in a park – his arms are around Lisa's waist, and she is smiling at the camera, while he is gazing at her in what can only be termed adoration. For once, I am not jealous, only sorry, so sorry for what is to come.

The next box is full of papers. Old magazines, bills, newsletters – I am going to drop the lid when I notice it: a few folded papers beneath a sheaf of receipts, distinctive for the neat handwriting that densely transverses the paper.

_I know that handwriting._

I take up the papers incuriously, thinking only to touch them; feel the ghost of his hand guiding the pen. My name – the name I have rejected, out-grown, scorned, but still, _my name_, catches my eye, and forgetting the cold, forgetting the damp, forgetting even that this letter is no longer addressed to me, but to the man I had been, the man who had been broken so long ago, I begin to read Ianto's last letter.

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**...to be continued, obviously. I'll update very soon, so please check back! Now, all that remains is for you to make my day by leaving a review... :) **


	2. Chapter 2

**Aaand, part 2, as promised. Thank you to those that favorited, it means a lot. :) This is for you!**

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_I take up the papers incuriously, thinking only to touch them; feel the ghost of his hand guiding the pen. My name – the name I have rejected, out-grown, scorned, but still, my name, catches my eye, and forgetting the cold, forgetting the damp, forgetting even that this letter is no longer addressed to me, but to the man I had been, the man who had been broken so long ago, I begin to read Ianto's last letter. _

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I can't think why I'm writing this, Jack, except I can't sleep for thinking about you. Not uncommon, of course, and I'm sure that if you ever read this, it will only serve to reinforce what you already know – that you are, in every way, the most incredible man. But that's not the only reason I can't close my eyes – every time I do, I see your expression today, the instant the weevil wrested the gun out of my hands and threw me to the ground, and the moment before you filled it up with bullets. That wasn't like you, Jack. I don't flatter myself that I'll ever truly know you, or that you'll confess your secrets to me the way I do to you, but I do think I understand you better than you might realize, And in those few instants I recognized two things.

You never kill weevils, Jack. You're tough and brave, and you can be heartless when you need to be, but that weevil wasn't posing a threat – you stunned it, so I could stumble away, and that wasn't enough for you – you had to shoot t again and again, until you were sure it was dead. I'd never seen that side of you before. When Gwen asked if we'd captured the weevil, you said nothing. Maybe you don't realize what you did – but I do.

The second clue was your expression – the one I can't keep myself from seeing. In the instant I was helpless, something overcame you, Jack. At first I didn't know what to make of it, but then I realized – you were _afraid._ Afraid, I think, for my sake, because, just for a moment, you realized what I dwell on every day – I am not immortal, I am not invincible. I am not like you.

You were afraid that the weevil would sink it's teeth into my neck, and that I would never open my eyes again, like you could.

You were too quick for it, Jack, and in a fury you took it's life – and then you forgot. I could see the tension leave you as you walked over and helped me up with that easy grin of yours, the one that made my heart skip a beat, even then. It was just another day for you – a typical day. But you forgot – you always forget – that my days are limited. Every day that to you is just one more, one of infinite days, to me is definite, vital, even, because any day could be my last. I try not to think about it, but this IS Torchwood, Jack – early deaths are part of the job description. And I love it, and I love you, and I want to spend every one of my precious days with you, and nothing could make me happier. But what about when I'm gone? It will happen someday, and I won't be there, but I flatter myself into thinking that it will hurt you, Jack. And even now, in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, and too cold to venture downstairs and turn up the heater, I can't help but wonder what you will do. My only comfort is that you'll forget me soon enough. I don't mind that, not really – you prove to me every day that I make you happy, and that's all I want – all I'll ever want. You are Captain Jack Harkness, after all; you have so many worlds to go out and save, so many people to charm, so many, many days to live. As if someone else can make you as happy as you've made me – well, then I would have to be inordinately selfish not to want that for you.

If you're reading this, I suppose I must not be around to stop you, because the truth is, I would never be able to talk to you about any of this, Jack. I don't know if you'd understand. And I'm too insecure to ask what I really mean to you, for fear you'd turn away, or answer me honestly; tell me that I'm only one of such a long line, that you care for me, but not nearly so much as I love you. There, I've said it – or written it on a scrap of paper you'll probably never see, which is almost the same thing. We've never said those three words to each other – and now I'm certain that the coffee I had today was decaf, because I'm exhausted and rambling sentimentally, which I try to avoid.

You, with all the time in the world, don't have time for sweet nothings, and I understand, Jack. I know that you have a whole world, maybe many worlds, to worry about, and that you face that daunting task with a carefree laugh, the way I could never do – I know that I could never be as important to you as any of that. But there come times, the brief flashes like today, when you remember – and then I know that, after all, I _am_ important to you. And I want you to know, Jack, that when I'm gone, and you've realized, in the harshest way, that I'm not immortal – I want you to know that I love you, and I have accepted this, even chosen it.

No one can live forever, Jack, and as the one exception to that rule, I'm sure you've come to realize it better than anyone. I can't imagine how that feels. But from the little you say, perhaps it is a relief that I don't know, that I can never know. To stay together forever would be monstrous – can you imagine, travelling the galaxy looking for ways to keep me alive, for just a year longer, just a day, pushing me to live an unnatural life, a life that could hardly be called a life? You have to let me go – trust me, this is better. And our time together is all the more precious for that it doesn't last. I promise you, I died doing what I loved, with whom I loved. Although I haven't travelled anywhere near as far and wide as you, I think I can say with a fair degree of certainty – Jack, you made me the happiest man in the universe. And when I'm gone, that's what I want for you. You can remember me – think about me, sometimes. I'd like that. But not if it hurts too much.

I guess I should try and sleep, Jack. Who knows what's coming through the Rift right this minute – it could be days before I get a proper rest again. Not that I'm complaining. But I'll have to be more careful – if Owen switches up my coffee for decaf one more time, I don't know what I'll do. Probably nothing, knowing me.

I'll see you again in – what – four hours or so, now? It always feels so much longer, like I'm not really me when we're apart. I wonder if you've ever felt like that. And at the same time, I know that none of this – these second-guesses, these fears and insecurities – will matter once I'm in your arms again. And maybe that's what I'm trying to say, Jack – that as long as we have each other, at least to me, it seems like nothing else matter. But that's a false security, and I know you're the one who will have to confront that.

I'm afraid of the dark, Jack, but maybe it's better. I'm afraid of the nothingness, but I would prefer it to everything; to forever. Even forever with you. And I can't imagine that I'll ever cease to love you; not really. But with you it's different, and don't try to deny it – moving on isn't just what's for the best; it's what you have to do. Right now, Jack, I need you. But when I'm gone, you have a duty to yourself, to the team, to this whole mad universe to stand up straight and strong and be the Jack Harkness that I fell in love with.

You inquired, once before, why I never ask for anything. Well, this is what I want, Jack. This is all I want. Because who could ask for more, really? Anyone who has ever been truly in love could tell you that – more than anything, they want their loved ones to live long and be happy, with or without them. And I'm lucky enough to have that within my grasp.

Just one more thing, Jack, before I collapse into bed, (without you, unfortunately, but the fact is that if you were here I wouldn't get any sleep at all). Just... it was good, yeah? Everything that we've done – everything that we've been, together. I wouldn't lose a moment of the last few months with you for anything. Remember it for me, will you? Remember it the way it was – absolutely perfect, take or leave a few potential weevil maulings. Don't you dare mix it up with regret, because I won't be there to kiss some sense into you.

Goodnight, Jack.

All my love,

Ianto

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The storm had abated by the time Jack rose, and the early hours of the morning were as still as death. But something else was stirring in Jack's chest – something new, and too painful to be happiness. Something he had not felt in a long time. It was too sudden, too tender, to be put into words just yet.

Jack stood, carefully folding the papers with steady hands. He stooped to return it to the box, and, without pausing, slipped a hand inside his coat and drew out a battered stopwatch, which he laid down next to them. He felt much lighter without it, although a tear traced down his cheek as he gently closed the box, and stepped back to regard the barren room. The life and possessions of Ianto Jones. And in death, just as in life, there were secrets there – secret papers that could change a man's world, quite literally forever. Secrets that you had to search for.

He was done searching, now. This room was not a life – it was an old storage cellar, in the slums – a room filled with secrets, with cardboard boxes, with an eternity of grief.

_Think about me sometimes – I'd like that. _

It would be a long time before he could think about anything else. But for the first time in so many lifetimes, Jack realized that it was possible – possible to be happy again –possible, if not to forget, then to forgive himself.

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There was no longer any reason to stay. Jack pulled his coat around him and left the storage room, pulling the door shut behind him just as the rising sun broke over the rooftops. For a moment he stood, stunned at the sudden warmth, then set off down the street. The drivers of the few cars that passed slowed to look after him – a gaunt, ragged man in a long army coat, striding purposefully along, squinting in the sunlight. Jack saw none of them – he was lost in thought, considering what to do next.

_ There would be time to clean himself up before mid-morning. He wouldn't want to wake Gwen and Rhys up too early – there might even be just enough time to get a cup of coffee as well. _

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